Neil Olson - The Icon

From his pocket he took the smooth jade beads that had spent so many hours in his godfather’s hands. What worries had they absorbed, what secrets? What penance could they do now for a man damned by his own conscience before death took him? What was the life of one priest in the weighty scale of Fotis’ sins? Mikalis had forgiven, or not, in his last moments, and nothing that Matthew did now mattered. He sighed. Such an evanescent faith was no faith at all. He squeezed the stones in his hand and thought of his grandfather. For Andreas? Could it be for him? But no, the old man would not care, the gesture would be lost upon him.

A memento, then. Like flowers upon a grave. That would have to be good enough. Abandoned by the priest’s lantern, in darkness, Matthew placed the beads upon the stone floor and rose to his feet. A slight dizziness took him, and he leaned upon the cases of his ancestors’ bones to steady himself. The air down here was too thin for the living; they must go. He wandered back toward the entry, looking about the chamber once more, fixing it in his mind. He wondered if he would return, or whether this might be the last time that a Spyridis visited this ancestral space. Did it matter that the connection would perish with him? Surely the dead did not care either way.

The priest waited for him by the stairs, and they went up. After the crypt, the newness of the upper church struck Matthew more forcefully. The Holy Mother could never have come back here; it would not have belonged. The thought of the vanished icon opened that dark, aching place within him, as it had done a hundred times already in the past three months. Yet each time with less force. Deep breaths steadied him; he turned his face away from the priest. He would mourn its loss for a long time, the rest of his life, but perhaps Father Ioannes had been right. Perhaps there was no place for such a sacred work in such a compromised world. Except a monastery. Yes, that was the answer. Metéora, Mount Athos, Saint Catherine’s in the Sinai. The world still did not know all the treasures hidden away in those places. The Holy Mother of Katarini would have been quite safe. Why had he and Ioannes not thought of that when they contemplated its fate? It hardly mattered now.

The afternoon sun had gone behind the mountains when they emerged into the courtyard, and Matthew could feel the day’s heat dissipating, cool dusk coming on swiftly, as it did in these hills. Ana had given him the number of her hotel in Rome. She did not expect him to call, had encouraged him not to, in fact. But she had given him the number. Words were untrustworthy, false. The face spoke the truth. The eyes did not lie, if you knew how to read them. Remember her face, that day he had last seen her. What had it asked of him?

Orange light bathed the top of the distant hill called Adelphos, little brother to the mountains behind it. He would have liked to climb that hill with his grandfather, but he would do it on his own. Find the caves, maybe grow a beard and change his name, live like an andarte or a mad hermit. Matthew smiled at the thought. He would settle for climbing the hill, but not today, not just now. Now he had to find a telephone.

My agent, Sloan Harris, provided countless insights into the troubles that beset earlier versions of this work, and proved himself the embodiment of patience, perseverance, and good humor. Dan Conaway, my editor, left no line unturned in his effort to make the novel all that it could be, and has a grasp of storytelling magic that is a gift to any writer. Jill Schwartzman, Kristin Ventry, Sandy Hodgman, and Liz Farrell have all gone above and beyond the call of duty.

The many people whose close reads and thoughtful advice were invaluable include Katharine Cluverius, Jesse Dorris, Jake Morrissey, Mary Ann Naples, Marcia Olson, Rose Olson, and Olga Vezeris. I’m grateful to Cameron Olson for supplying critical information about military history, and to Sean Hemingway for a backstage look at the Metropolitan Museum. Vasili Andreopoulos’ memories of the German occupation of his village in Kozani were among the first inspirations for this work. And the support shown to all my writing endeavors by my entire family, including Brad, Laura, and Big Neil, has been faith-sustaining.

I am deeply indebted to the works of countless authors, among them Helen C. Evans, Dan Hofstadter, John Lowden, John Julius Norwich, David Talbot Rice, Steven Runciman, C. M. Woodhouse, and especially Mark Mazower. Any errors or deliberate departures from fact for dramatic purposes are upon my head, of course.

Greatest thanks and deepest love go to Caroline Sutton, who was my first reader, editor, sounding board, provider of names and colors, and comic relief-and who got me up at six o’clock every morning.

Neil Olson,the grandson of Greek immigrants, works in the publishing industry and lives in New York City with his wife.

www.iconthebook.com